The Eighty-Dollar Champion - Elizabeth Letts [113]
There was an open spot in the arena wall, called “the gap,” where the trophies were kept, along with a red carpet, a small blue table, and a potted palm. At the close of each class, for the presentation of the trophy, the red carpet was unfurled, the table carried out, and the palm and silver trophy set upon it. The red carpet appeared to honor the horses, but in reality, it was there to protect the shoes of the important society ladies, who could not walk through the thick dirt in their dyed-to-match evening pumps. Throughout the show, the silver winked from the shadows of “the gap,” the embodiment of promise.
The ringmaster, Honey Craven, wore a royal red waistcoat and a gray silk top hat modeled, as tradition dictated, on the costume of the English Royal Guard. Each class was announced by the call of a long brass English hunting horn. His thin, clear piping on the horn, signaling the start of each new class, brought every competitor to full attention.
Snowman’s first test would be a rematch against Diamant in a fault-and-out class. The combination of timed courses and big spreads always bedeviled the big gray, while Diamant, the German horse, excelled at this kind of class, since in Europe all of them were run this way. Of course, Miss Sears was watching Diamant from her usual private box along the promenade. Her horses had been winning at the Garden for decades. Snowman was here on his first improbable trip.
Horses and riders milled around, unsure when they would be called. Even the most seasoned competitors looked tense, the horses jigging in place, chomping on their bits. The air vibrated with coiled-up energy waiting to be released.
Diamant went early and, true to form, took no notice of the lights or the crowd. He rounded the course with no faults, finishing with a fast time that would be the one to beat. In order to compete, Harry would need to cut the tight corners even tighter.
Harry sat astride Snowman, trying to block out the confusion around him. He visualized the course in his mind’s eye, imagining each turn, trajectory, and approach. Show jumping resembles sports like diving and ice-skating: years of training, honing skills and fostering endurance, are sandwiched into a few brief high-risk moments in the spotlight. Every move must be so ingrained, so practiced, so much like breathing that no thought is necessary. Like ice-skaters, who sometimes, upon finishing a flawless round, look momentarily surprised, in high-stakes jumper competitions, after years of training—of sacrifice and striving—moments in the ring pass so quickly that the rider and horse barely register what has happened until they are through.
Now it was Harry and Snowman’s moment.
The gate man called out Harry’s number. The big gates swung open, revealing the ring, the crowds, the flags, and the huge fences.
Harry whispered a word of encouragement and saw Snowy’s ear flick back. He patted his neck and urged him forward. The Flying Dutchman and his plow horse were lit up in the glaring center-stage lights of Madison Square Garden.
Harry sensed his horse’s mood, reading the horse’s signals through his seat bones, thighs, calves, and hands. Snowman was listening, but with a slight undercurrent of distraction. Harry kept the reins loose, telegraphing trust to his horse. Another pat on the neck, then a cluck. Snowman picked up a canter and Harry rose up out of the saddle, leaning forward. “Go boy, go,” he whispered. Noise bounced from the walls of the cavernous Garden, but Harry saw an ear flick back. The horse was listening.
Then all was flying color and spinning motion. The pair flew around the tight turns of the course until they were heading toward the last fence, a big spread. Harry felt the horse’s gathering approach, measured the length of his stride, slipped his hands up the crest so that the horse elongated his neck. A striped pattern of light from the spotlights fell